Valkyrie Slumbering (4 page)

I want his hands on more than just my back. Leaning into him, I nearly gasp at the feel of his hard, naked chest pressed against me. His hands snake under my tunic, across my belly, and up, so slowly up. At last those wonderfully rough hands cup beneath my breasts. His fingers work their way up around the swell. Gods, he moves so slow it makes me burn. I sit back into his lap, feeling his cock hard and eager against my butt. The feeling makes me moan.

Finally, his fingers brush my nipples, first one, then the other. My back arches as I push my breasts into his hands, needing more. He pinches one, gently rolling it between his fingers. Those callused hands feel even better than I imagined they would. One of his hands continues to massage my right nipple while the other traces its way down my torso, inching past my belly button, grazing the top of my breeches. Already my breath is coming quicker.

I tilt my head back and kiss his chin, lick a line along it until I reach his ear. Pulling his earlobe between my teeth, I bite gently and he moans. His lips find mine, and my mouth opens to him, eagerly awaiting the thrust of his tongue. As our tongues dance in and out of each other’s mouths, his hands work at the lacings of my breeches. He pulls his tongue back, making me chase it. Just as he thrusts it back into my mouth, his hand slips inside my breeches, over the mound of my hair, and between my folds. I’m already so wet that my panties will have to be washed. Slick and easy, his fingers slide into me and it feels so good that I cry out. One finger moves slowly in and out of me until I’m rocking against his hand. I press my lips to his and breathe into his mouth, “More, please, more.”

He places two fingers inside me, as deep as he can reach and I rock faster. His fingers find my rhythm and soon have me panting. I’m not the only one. As he kisses me deeply, I can feel how hard he’s breathing, and it makes me even wetter. Suddenly I wish it was more than his tongue in my mouth. I want to taste
him
.

Those two fingers slip out of me and start to rub my outer folds. The other hand works at my breast, teasing my nipple, squeezing and pinching it. Sensations I haven’t felt in years rock through me. His tongue explores my mouth eagerly, his right hand squeezes my nipple hard, and his left hand rubs my clit so fast that I can’t breathe. It brings me screaming with release in only moments. My muscles are still convulsing when he thrusts his fingers back inside me, drawing the orgasm out until my head spins. Spent, I relax against him, my hands snaking up into his dark hair.

“By the Gods, you’re good at that,” I say through a sigh.

He laughs, low and quiet, the sound shaking his chest. “I could tell you needed it.”

Tracing across parts now swollen from arousal, his fingers withdraw from me. I turn around in his lap and stroke his stubbly face. Those deep blue eyes regard me with something close to wonder. I reach for the laces of his breeches, against which he is hard and straining. Getting my hands around that hardness is all I can think about. But his hands grab mine, stopping me.

“No. Tonight was all about you. We’ll save that for another time,” he says.

Disappointment wars with a deeply touched feeling—one that has nothing to do with where his fingers just reached. A man has never shown me such consideration.

He lies back onto his blanket and reaches toward me. “Come, sleep beside me,” he invites.

The firelight dances across his half-naked body, reflecting in his eyes. I’m helpless to resist. Letting out a breath, I lie beside him. His arms close around me, and I snuggle in against his chest, sated in a way I’ve never been before.

Skirting around the forest made for another long day in the saddle. As I brush the sweat from the red mare’s coat, I can’t help but envy her. My butt needs a massage just as much as she does, more probably. The almost melodic trickle of water nearby beckons with its promise of cleanliness. Considering how fast the temperature is dropping this afternoon, though, I know that water is going to be brisk. But, where there is a river in this land there is often a hot spring. I secure the mare to the line Grím has strung between two birch trees then turn to the hilly landscape.

He has a hand pressed into the middle of his lower back and is stretching his lean, muscled body. Even with armor concealing him, he strikes a handsome figure. Still, I find myself wanting to peel away the layers and expose the flesh beneath. The swell of his groin within his leather breeches is particularly tempting. I’ve yet to see what hides behind those ties and the anticipation is eating away at me.

I turn away and throw my sleeping roll onto a level spot of ground that looks as though it is covered by enough soil to give it some cushion. Though short green grass covers the landscape, it is made up of such rocky hills that I can scarcely see over the next to see what lies beyond. For safety it isn’t the ideal spot, but for windbreak I suppose it’ll do. Such are the sacrifices one must make while traveling in the country.

Grím’s bedroll falls beside mine. I jump, a hand going to the hilt of the sword at my waist.

“Didn’t mean to startle ye, sorry.” His deep voice takes the edge off the afternoon’s chill.

My hand slips away from the hilt, and I give him a slight smile. “It’s all right. I’m lost in my thoughts and jumpy because of it,” I admit, shocking myself. It isn’t like me to be so upfront with a stranger. But then, after yesterday, I guess I can’t exactly consider Grím a stranger.

He cocks his head, eyes catching mine like a web does a fly. “I’ve been wantin’ to ask ye somethin’, and if I’m pryin’ I’m guessin’ ye’ll tell me,” he says.

My smile turns crooked. “I will. But you’ll have to walk with me a bit. I want to see if I can find a hot spring nearby.”

Light fills his eyes, and a smile spreads wide across his face. “Deal.”

Keeping the river to our right, we begin to walk. Our arms brush now and then, the sensation causing shivers to race through me. Then again that could just be the breeze blowing across the hills. How he manages to distract me in a way no other man has is a mystery. One I can’t help but ponder. I find myself wanting to lace my fingers through his and seek my leather-wrapped sword hilt instead.  Even if only for a moment, I want to stay focused.

“Was it yer mother or yer father who was Alfhiem?” Grím asks.

The question sends a jolt through me. It isn’t so much what he asked, but how he asked it. His tone was curious, gentle. I’ve only ever been asked such a thing in a derisive manner.

“My mother. And you?” I ask.

His smile turns sad, and I ache knowing I dredged that sadness up. “Aye, me ma as well. Though he was a gentle soul, me da went sailing when his Viking king ordered it. The ship took him south where he met me ma.”

I try to make my next words as gentle as possible. “Was she a slave then? Brought back from a raid?”

Grím shakes his head, eyes on the cloudy horizon. “It wasn’t like that—she loved him and returned of her own free will with him.” The pride in his words warmed me.

“It sounds as though they were both good people. I didn’t know Alfhiem lived in other lands,” I say.

He nods. “Many don’t know of them, but they exist everywhere. In me ma’s land, they are called Sidhe.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

Knowing my mother’s kind exist elsewhere sends a pang of longing through me. For the first time since my father was killed, part of me longs to return home, to my mother.  But my work isn’t done yet. Which makes me wonder, what brings a man like Grím to such a contest?

Thunder claps somewhere in the distance as if Thor himself is shocked that I’ve revealed so much of myself. As he should be. I’ve never shared this with anyone, and I never thought I would. Grím isn’t just anyone, though.  There’s something about him, something more than a shared experience. My eyes travel to the curve of his bicep, taking in the woven lines of his blue tattoo, and finally settle upon his face. Only a hint of stubble sprinkles across his handsome features, framing his tempting lips. Unlike the Vikings I’m used to being around, Grím likes to shave nearly every day. Unusual as it is, I find I like it.

Again thunder booms, louder this time, closer. From horizon to horizon dark gray clouds choke the sky now. Sheets of rain billow down in the distant hills, but from the direction they’re traveling, it doesn’t look like it will reach us. My skin crawls.

“Why is there no lightning?” I murmur.

Grím’s hand wraps around mine, pulling my attention back to him. But he isn’t looking at me—he’s scanning our surroundings. His muscles are tense, jaw tight. “Thunder without lightnin’ is a harbinger,” he says.

A shiver travels across me—whether from his worried tone or the ancient saying, I’m not sure. From far too close, a growl rumbles, turning my shiver into a rush of fear. The sound is dark and menacing, the likes of which I have never heard. Steel rasps against leather as both Grím and I draw our swords and put our backs together.

Cresting the hill not twenty feet to our right is a monster from legend. I thought it only a tale to frighten children into not straying too far from home, yet here it stands. In many ways it resembles a wolf. Yet no normal wolf stands high enough to look me in the eye as this beast does. It’s easily five feet at the shoulder and as broad as a horse. Hair dark as coal covers its thickly muscled body. Claws that look sharp as daggers extend from its massive paws, stabbing into the ground. Dark lips pull back from slavering fangs that could probably fit around my head.

Cold fear and hot battle rage coil within me, fighting for dominance. I tighten my grip on my sword hilt. Warmth spreads through me as the battle rage wins. Nightmare creature or not, I will fight.

“Is that a fenrir?” Grím asks, tone filled with disbelief.

My vision begins to narrow as if I’m staring down a tunnel. Hearing him name the beast makes it seem all the more real. A few deep breaths open the world back up and calms me. “It must be,” I say, voice steady.

Impossible as it is, that’s the only answer. What one of the hounds of Loki, God of Fire, is doing here though, I have no idea. Movement to my left catches my eye but doesn’t draw it.

“There’s another,” Grím says.

My sword arm begins to shake. Facing a man down is one thing, but this, it’s unfathomable, and
huge
.

“Excellent. One for me and one for you. Any suggestions as to how we fight a creature from the underworld?” I ask.

“Just like any other,” Grím says with a confidence that manages to soothe me a bit.

I focus on my breathing and try to convince myself that it’s just a wolf. A really, really big wolf.

With a snarl, it charges. I wait for it to get close enough—which takes less than a heartbeat—then swing with all my might. In a blur of black, it dodges out of my way. Momentum carries my swing up as the beast recovers and slashes a claw at my mid-section. Arching back, I barely avoid a gory end. I’m not used to anyone—or anything in this matter—being as fast as I am.

Sure to control my speed and aim this time, I swing again. The beast dodges easily as I expected. In mid-swing I arch my sword upward and feel steel bite into flesh, but just barely. The fenrir roars and rears back. A bloody gash runs down its chest but it’s not as deep as it should be. Sharp as my sword is, it should have filleted the beast.

Teeth gnashing, it lunges at me again. Side-stepping, I swing for its shoulder, putting my hips into it to add as much speed to the move as I can. The swing connects solid enough to jar my shoulder and shove me back, yet again it barely slices the fenrir’s black hide.

“Dammit!” I yell.

Again and again it lunges. I fall into an easy cadence of dodging and counterattacking. The beast is so fast that it gives me no time for fear, only reaction. Normally my superior speed and skill—thanks to my Alfhiem blood—allow me to overcome my foes in only a few moves, but this is no regular foe.

Those sharp claws snag my left leg. Anger over the wound burns through me, cauterizing the pain and strengthening my resolve. Reading the pattern of the beast’s movements, I position myself. This time when it lunges, I meet it head on, thrusting my sword straight into its chest. The collision drives me back, the beast toppling toward me. For a moment I wonder if it will crush me to death. Not exactly the way I wanted to go. Before my butt hits the ground, though, the fenrir turns to ash and blows away in the wind.

Not wasting a moment, I flip to my feet and face the other direction, sword held at the ready. Standing atop a pile of ash, arms crossed, eyes soaking me in, is Grím. One eyebrow is raised above his blue eyes and a smirk pulls at his lips. The fading light catches brilliantly on the blue knotwork tattoos that surround his bulging biceps. A new gash in the chest piece of his leather armor offers me a glimpse of his hard abdominal muscles. Otherwise, he appears unharmed and the steady rise and fall of his chest shows he’s not even winded.

“Impressive,” he says in a voice deep with desire. The sound tightens the muscles between my legs. How is it he has such a powerful effect on me? Perhaps it’s only the battle lust transforming into something else.